Food shattered to dust,
Birds no longer flew.
The leaden day I lost you.’”
“That’s a Byrne poem,” said Isabelle quietly.
“Yes.” Miss Brecken fluttered her hands. “It put into words, at the time, how I felt when a dear friend of mine died, and for a twin brother… His Grace must have felt as though his soul had been half stripped away and I imagine it must be hard…to reconcile that such pain was, in a way, unwarranted now that Lord Tristan has returned. Furthermore, I do not believe such a wound of grief just…fills in. It merely heals over like the bark of a tree when a branch is felled, with the knowledge that at some point in the future, he might feel that loss all over again, for our lives are so very fragile.” She paused and blushed. “Oh, I have not the aptitude of Byrne, but I hope you understand what I am trying to say.”
Isabelle placed a hand to Miss Brecken’s shoulder while Hugh rose and raised the young lady’s fingers to his lips. “We understand you perfectly, Miss Brecken. Your eloquence was touching.”
The young lady blushed.
Elen tapped her foot. “But what can we do about the two of them?”
Gwen recalled reading that poem also…
She added another spoonful of brandy.
After all, it couldn’t hurt.
OceanofPDF.com
CHAPTERSEVEN
“Coelum non animum mutant– One changes one’s sky but not one’s soul.”
Observations and Reflections Made in the Course of a Journey…
Mrs Thrale. 1789.
Tristan pinched his paining brow and closed his eyes to listen to the ebb and flow of conversation at the dinner table and allowed Gwen’s lyrical voice to soothe as she told Isabelle of their traditional WelshPlygain.
“It’s our church service held at three on Christmas Day. A festive village occasion with much singing.”
A small hand covered his own, so he entwined fingers to hold it tight – Mari.
“How delightful,” said Isabelle brightly. “And I’d imagine the afternoon walk to the village helps build an appetite for the evening’s feast?”
Tristan opened his eyes a sliver and watched Rhys smile at his duchess. “That’s three in the morn, mycariad.”
“Oh. I see. That’s…early.”
“Generally, the men do not retire abed at all on the eve before Christmas but stay up drinking and telling tales.”
“Which is why I’m here,” added Hugh, who’d abandoned his jacket and looked healthy and hale.
“Then, just before two of the morn,” continued his brother, “we travel by coach to the village where the vicar leads everyone to the church by torchlight. Then there is singing for three hours.”
“T-three hours?” Isabelle repeated a little less brightly, her enthusiasm obviously waning somewhat.
Gwen leaned forward, the candlelight revealing her hair to be black as gunpowder. One fat curl snaked over her alabaster shoulder and then glided over turquoise silk, the colour of the sea on a sun-lit July noon. “Men of the congregation can step up to the front in groups or alone and sing from the gospel or a carol. Families also have their own hymns handed down to them. My papa has an Evans’ hymn from our great-great-grandfather in his collection. I’ve sung it on occasion.”
Beautiful.
Tristan recalled Gwen singing that hymn at some musical soiree in London. The words had been so affecting, her melodious and agile voice sweeping away the past and future and bringing only the moment.
“ThePlygainis a sight to behold,” said Rhys. “Tristan and I used to…” He trailed off as though he’d just remembered his brother was now alive and sitting at the other end of the dinner table. He cast a somewhat forced apologetic smile. “Of course, Tris, you don’t have to sing this year. Hugh and I can do it.”
